If Not, That's Okay
by tito72
Summary: Mr. Barrow stares at him, apparently uncomprehending, for a long, long moment. Then he takes a sharp breath in. "Exactly how hard did you hit your head, Jimmy?" he asks slowly, and his face has gone past worry and into deep fear. "Do you not know where we are?" Or, the one where Jimmy gets amnesia. Futurefic.
1. Chapter 1

Jimmy wakes to a throbbing in his head and a terrible confusion about where, exactly, he is. He's not in his bed, that's for sure, because his bed isn't soft by any stretch of the imagination, but it's not quite as hard as all that, either, not like the surface he's currently lying on. When he opens his eyes, the ceiling above him doesn't belong to his room, and the blurred vision that resolves itself into a pale face after a few blinks belongs to someone who wouldn't be caught dead in his room, not after what happened last time. It's Thomas Barrow and he's looking quite worried.

"Are you alright, luv?" Mr. Barrow asks and Jimmy blinks again, even more confused. Since when does Mr. Barrow call him 'luv'? Even when he was being so very familiar in those early days, he was never that familiar.

"I'm fine," Jimmy says anyway, deciding to ignore the oddity of the question. He sits up with a groan, feeling bruised and beaten on every part of him. And worse than that, the room he's in isn't one he's familiar with. It's some mix between a parlor and a dining room and there are clocks and clock bits absolutely everywhere. Still, he doesn't want to ask, 'Where are we?' since that seems a tad confrontational. Instead, he goes with the slightly safer, "What happened?"

At this, Mr. Barrow expression changes to one of extreme disapproval, a look to make Carson proud. "It was Sally," he says tightly. "Stupid mangy cur tripped you up on the stairs. She's gone off somewhere now, probably hiding under the bed, so you'll need to coax her out before you open shop."

"Open shop," Jimmy repeats blankly. His head is still pounding and he's starting to think something really very wrong is going on here. "Right. Er, what shop would that be, exactly, Mr. Barrow?"

Mr. Barrow stares at him, apparently uncomprehending, for a long, long moment. Then he takes a sharp breath in. "Exactly how hard did you hit your head, Jimmy?" he asks slowly, and his face has gone past worry and into deep fear. "Do you not know where we are?"  
Jimmy takes another look around the crowded room, at the mismatched furniture and the cogs and gears spread out across the table. "I'm guessing," he says after a moment, "that we're not in Downton."

"That," Mr. Barrow says after a long moment of horrified silence, "is a spot-on guess." He's clearly shaken, though trying not to show it. He goes to put a hand on Jimmy's shoulder, but thinks better of it when Jimmy tenses up. "That's it," he says, standing. "I'm calling the doctor."

As they wait for the doctor, Mr. Barrow helps Jimmy stand and move over to the rather tattered-looking sofa on the far side of the room. Jimmy's tense through the whole process, from the pain, sure, but also because even though he and Mr. Barrow are best mates now, he's not quite up on the whole touching thing. Mr. Barrow seems to sense Jimmy's discomfort, though, and he very kindly backs away once Jimmy's seated and goes to stand at the far side of the room, looking worried and rather pinched about the mouth.

The doctor, when he comes, is certainly not Doctor Clarkson. (Not that Jimmy expects it to be, because he's had a look out the window while he waited and he doesn't know what city it is out there, but it's plain that it is a city and not Downton village.) Instead, when Mr. Barrow goes to answer the bell downstairs, he comes back with a sort of young chap, blonde and with his hair all slicked back.

"Hello, Jimmy," the doctor says, rather too familiarly, in Jimmy's opinion; evidently getting a bump on his crown means everyone gets to be his best mate today.

"Hello," Jimmy replies cautiously. He goes to stand to shake the man's hand, because he can be polite, even if no one else is willing, but the look Mr. Barrow throws him when he starts to get up makes him keep his seat.

The doctor doesn't seem to mind the rudeness, in any case. He just smiles and wanders over to sit down in the space right next to Jimmy, dropping his black bag rather carelessly on the floor and peering into Jimmy's eyes. "Mr. Barrow says you've got an injury," he says, pressing his thigh right up against Jimmy's. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Jimmy fixes the man with a rather tense smile and scoots away a fraction. "I tripped," he says, remember what Mr. Barrow told him. "Over the dog, I guess."

"I see," the doctor says, not perturbed at all by Jimmy's moving away from him. "And are you suffering any pain, anywhere at all?"

"My head," Jimmy says, grimacing as a particularly fierce throb hits him. "Neck and back, a bit." He spares a glance for Mr. Barrow, still looking worried and standing just a bit away. Jimmy's not sure if he's more embarrassed to have to do this examination in front of him or grateful for his presence, because lord, this doctor is sitting mighty close, isn't he?

"And are you suffering from any confusion or dizziness?" the doctor persists.

"…a bit," Jimmy ventures after a pause, because he doesn't want to say he's just about gone past confusion and into genuine bewilderment about just what is going on here.

"I see," the doctor says again, his face losing a bit of its humor. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, then, shall I? You just answer me the best you can."

"Alright," Jimmy agrees, because what else can he do? And who knows, the situation is strange enough that the doctor might be right and he might actually have some sort of trauma or something in his brain. "Go on, then."

"What's your name?" the doctor asks, and Jimmy tells him, "James Joseph Kent," and the doctor nods, though how he knows Jimmy's whole name is a bit of a mystery to Jimmy.

"And what year were you born?" the doctor asks, and Jimmy tells him, "'91," then stops, because, no, that's not right, is it? "Sorry," he says at once, looking to Mr. Barrow, who's face has gone blank in that way it does sometimes when he doesn't want anyone, not even Jimmy, to know what he's thinking. "But that's you, isn't it, Mr. Barrow?" He doesn't know how he knows that or why he'd get it confused with his own birth year, but he does know it, somehow. Mr. Barrow nods woodenly and Jimmy turns back to the doctor, who doesn't find this exchange odd at all, for some reason. "I meant to say, '98. That's the year I meant."

"Alright, then," the doctor says, shrugging. "And who is the king?"

"George V," Jimmy says automatically, and the doctor nods.

"And what year is it?" the doctor asks, and Jimmy says, "1923."

And that's when things get odd, because the doctor's brow furrows a bit and Mr. Barrow makes a noise, the sort a dying animal might make, if a dying animal could stifle the noise as soon as it's out of its mouth. Jimmy looks between the two of them, confused.

"What?" he says stupidly, head starting to pound quite fiercely. "What's wrong with you lot? It is 1923."

"No," the doctor says softly as Mr. Barrow turns and walks away. "It's 1927."


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Jimmy's done losing his head and has himself back under control, Mr. Barrow's gone from the room completely, leaving Jimmy in the company of the blonde overly-familiar doctor and a scruffy little mongrel, both of whom are looking at Jimmy with deep concern. Jimmy, though, is not concerned in the slightest. Jimmy is not concerned, because he's clearly having some sort of nightmare.

"I'm dreaming," he tells the doctor quite confidently. "You and you," he says, pointing to both of the others in turn, "are a part of some terrible nightmare I'm having. Any minute now the hall boy is going to come knocking on my door and I'm going to have to get up and face Mr. Carson's wrath about the dish I broke yesterday."

It's all coming back to him, now. He probably has suffered some sort of brain injury, but it's not here and it's not from tripping over this stupid-looking dog. He'd tripped over Molesley's bloody ridiculous feet, as a matter of fact, and taken a tumble down the stairs, he remembers that all quite clearly. He doesn't remember exactly what happened after the fall, but he's sure Mrs. Hughes had sent for Mr. Barrow and he and Molesley had helped Jimmy upstairs into his room, where he'd slept the fall off. And now, any bloody second now, Jimmy's going to wake up in his bed, sore and angry, but very firmly in 1923.

"Jimmy," the blonde doctor says carefully, looking very serious now and not at all like a moony girl. "I'm afraid you're not dreaming. This is really quite serious. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I've told you," Jimmy says irritably. "I was at Downton yesterday and I tripped on the stairs. They'll have sent me up to have a lie down, and that's where I am now."

"I see," the doctor says. "And you don't remember anything at all since then? Not coming to London with Mr. Barrow or working in the shop downstairs?"

"And why should I?" Jimmy asks, moving past irritation to the edge of anger. Not even in his dreams would he be living and working with Mr. Barrow. Not even in Mr. Barrow's dreams would that happen. "None of that happened, did it? It's all stuff I've just dreamt up."

"Alright, Jimmy," the doctor placates, patting Jimmy's arm gingerly. "I think it's best you lie down for a bit, rest your head. I'm going to get you some ice and… speak with Mr. Barrow. I'll be right back, shall I?"

"If ya like," Jimmy says. He's not worried, after all. He'll wake up any minute now. He waits until the doctor has gone out of the room, then stretches himself out on the sofa. His aches, but he's not worried, not at all, not even when the dog comes over and tentatively licks his fingers. Jimmy just closes his eyes and scratches the dog behind its ears.

Jimmy opens his eyes again sometime later when he hears footsteps, but it's not the doctor standing over him. It's Mr. Barrow, and he still looks rather pinched and unhappy. He sits down on the sofa next to Jimmy's legs, which Jimmy shifts back and away so the two of them aren't touching at all, an action which makes Mr. Barrow frown even deeper than he'd already been.

"I've got your ice," Mr. Barrow says. He makes a move like he wants to put the flannel-wrapped ice directly on Jimmy's head, but stops at the last minute and holds it out for Jimmy to take instead. "Doctor Barnes had another patient to get to," he explains quietly, "but he said he'd come back if your headache got worse or you lost any more time. He… he said you don't remember coming away to London with me, opening the shop. He said you think you're in some sort of terrible dream."

"Well," Jimmy says, looking at the misery on Mr. Barrow's face, writ plainly enough for anyone who knows him like Jimmy does. "It's not my usual sort of nightmare, I'll give ya that."

"I know," Mr. Barrow says with a sort of pained half-smile. "You only ever have nightmares of your father dying at the Front."

"Cor," Jimmy says and stares up at him, shocked. It's true, is the thing; Jimmy's only recurring nightmare from the war is his father being shot down, though he wasn't there to see it in person. He's not sure how Mr. Barrow knows, though, because Jimmy's damn sure he never told anyone about it. "How d'you know that?"

Mr. Barrow swallows and looks away. "You really don't remember anything, do you?" he says, more to himself than to Jimmy, if Jimmy's any judge.

"There's nothing to remember," Jimmy tells him. "This is all some silly dream."

"Right," Mr. Barrow says tightly, standing. "Well, I've got to get back down to the shop. I've canceled all my appointments for the day, so don't worry about that. Just… just get some rest, alright?" He doesn't wait for Jimmy to answer, already walking away, though he does pause at the door to say, "Come, Sally!"

Sally, the poor mutt, gives one last sad lick to Jimmy's fingers then trots off obediently after Mr. Barrow. Jimmy just rolls over and closes his eyes.

For this whole affair being a dream, Jimmy thinks several hours later, it's mightily uneventful. Every once in a while he hears the ringing of a bell from downstairs, but other than that, there's nothing at all to distract him from the ache in his head, except for the tick-ticking of the clocks scattered about, which actually sort of makes the pain worse.

Eventually, Jimmy realizes he's rather hungry, which he thinks is a valid reason for getting up off the sofa at last. He sets his mostly-melted ice-cloth aside and sits up slowly. He's got to pause for the faint dizziness, then he's clambering to his feet, using the sofa behind him to steady himself. It doesn't take long to get his balance back, and when he's sure he's got his feet under him, he decides to do a bit of poking around. After all, dream or not, it can't hurt to get the lay of the land. After all, he doesn't know how long this dream's going to last and he might as well be prepared.

The room he's in, as he'd assessed earlier, is a cross between a parlor and a dining room, with the sofa at one end of the room and the dining table at the other end, though from the state of the table, Jimmy's forced to conclude that the only thing way anyone actually eats there is if they really enjoy eating cogs and gears and things. It's not a large room, but since the only other bits of furniture in it are the bookshelves along one wall, it doesn't feel very cramped, either.

There are, Jimmy counts, three doors leading off the room he's currently in. One of them, when he sticks his head through, is a small kitchen comes into view, complete with a tiny oven and range, and even an electric toaster, which Jimmy takes to mean the shop downstairs is doing well for itself. This room should be the answer to his hunger, but Jimmy's not sure he'd even be able to make toast without burning it, and even in a dream that's not something he wants to deal with, so he pulls himself away from the room and tries the doorway just next to it.

This room is someone's bedroom. Two someones, in fact, from the look of the unmade bed. Jimmy doesn't have the energy to deal with the implications of that, though, not with his stomach empty and his head pounding, so he leaves the room without touching anything and tries the third door, which is clear ways across the sitting room.

This door, which Jimmy recalls is the one Mr. Barrow went through earlier, leads to a steep set of stairs, the ones Jimmy is supposed to have fallen down earlier, he guesses. At the bottom of the stairs, there's another door, which Jimmy pushes open cautiously. On the other side, there's a tidy little clock shop and behind the counter is Mr. Barrow, tinkering with something or other. It shouldn't surprise Jimmy like it does, not with what he knows about Mr. Barrow and with all those clock bits upstairs, but he's somehow still a bit shocked. He can't, even in his dreams, picture Mr. Barrow as anything but in service, and to see him here, a proper shopkeep, it sends an odd feeling through Jimmy's stomach.

He must make a noise or something, because Mr. Barrow looks up from his broken clock and smiles at him. It only lasts a second, before Mr. Barrow's face closes down again, but the brilliance of it makes Jimmy take an instinctive step backward so his back's against the door.

"You're meant to be lying down," Mr. Barrow chides, going back to his tinkering.

"Was hungry," Jimmy explains.

"Well, you know how to cook," Mr. Barrow says dismissively, but Jimmy shakes his head, softly, because of the pain.

"I don't," he says and Mr. Barrow looks up at him sharply.

"Oh," he says after a pause. "No, I suppose you wouldn't, if the last thing you remember is 1923. That was the year you learned, I think. You were… very adamant that it was a skill you'd be needing."

"Why would I?" Jimmy asks, wishing he could take another step back but having nowhere to go. "That's what girls are for, isn't it?" As far Jimmy could tell, that and the housekeeping was the only reason to every get married at all. And the naughty bits, of course, but Jimmy can and does handle himself on that count fairly often.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Barrow says drily. "Because we've so many of those hangin' about."

"None at all?" Jimmy asks rather desperately. It's not only the eating that's worrying him, but the further implications behind Mr. Barrow's words, because if there aren't any girls hanging about, who is it that sleeps in that bedroom upstairs?

Mr. Barrow doesn't answer him, just puts down his tools at last and wipes his hands off. "Don't worry yourself, Jimmy," he says with forced casualness. "We won't starve. I can cook a bit, even if I've not got your skill."

Starving honestly hadn't been one of the things Jimmy was worried about, but now that Mr. Barrow's mentioned it, he can't help himself but to worry. There's nothing for it, though, except to watch as Mr. Barrow closes up the shop and follow him upstairs, all the while hoping he'll wake up from this sodding dream before he has to eat whatever the man manages to scrape together.

Actually, after a meal of tea and cold meats and cheeses, Jimmy feels a bit better, well enough to follow Mr. Barrow back down to the shop afterward and sit next to him at the counter, with Sally on the floor between them like she knows just how this goes. Jimmy listens dutifully while Mr. Barrow explains the running of the business, which seems to be that Jimmy minds the shop and its customers while Mr. Barrow makes house calls to London's upper class, fixing grandfather clocks and things that can't be easily moved. It seems to cheer Mr. Barrow up a bit to talk about this bit, which in turn cheers Jimmy up; he does hate to see Mr. Barrow miserable, even if it is all just a silly dream.

They have a rather surprisingly steady stream of customers, as well, and Jimmy gets to watch as Mr. Barrow interacts with them. He's a brilliant salesmen, is Mr. Barrow, and Jimmy's not even surprised to learn it. It makes sense, after all, what with Mr. Barrow being handsome and charming and clever enough to sell ice to an Eskimo. Jimmy doesn't think he'd be that brilliant at all, if he gave it a try, and it makes him wonder how the shop does any business at all. Still, the sales, too, seem to make Mr. Barrow happy, enough that they manage to get through the rest of the afternoon together without the man's haunted look from this morning making a reappearance.

They close up shop at six o'clock and go upstairs for tea, which Jimmy actually can make himself, though the brew's not near as good as what Mrs. Patmore or even silly Ivy could manage. Mr. Barrow contributes with some rather burnt toast and jam, and they eat together at the sofa in silence, except for the crunching and Sally's whining for scraps. Afterward, Mr. Barrow grabs up the newspaper off the side-table and starts to read, leaving Jimmy to wander around the room, poking at bits of clock and examining the book cases.

"Only, there's no piano," he says at last.

"Eh?" Mr. Barrow says vaguely, not looking up from his paper.

"I just thought, if I'd gone and dreamed up a flat like this, there'd at least be a piano in it."

Rather stiffly, Mr. Barrow puts down his paper and looks at Jimmy. "You really don't remember anything at all?" he asks, voice sort of desperate.

Jimmy wants to reassure him somehow, but there's nothing he can say that's not already been said, so he just shrugs.

"Right," Mr. Barrow says at last. "Well. I've got… work to be doing." He stands and strides over to the dining table, where he takes up his clock bits and a broken clock and, presumably, begins to mold them together again.

The paper, lying once again on the side-table, says it's Friday, June 24, 1927. Jimmy sighs and closes his eyes.

Supper is rather more stilted than tea, with Mr. Barrow studiously avoiding Jimmy's eyes as they eat the pies Mr. Barrow'd fetched from a shop down the street. Jimmy doesn't try to make conversation, wouldn't know what to say if he did. He feels badly, of course, that Mr. Barrow is miserable because of him, but since neither Mr. Barrow nor this entire situation are real, there's nothing to be done, except resolve to be extra kind to Mr. Barrow in the morning when he wakes up from this dream. So they eat in silence and that's the only thing for it.

After supper, Mr. Barrow reads his paper a bit more, though with as fast a reader as he is, Jimmy'd wager he's stalling for time more than anything. Jimmy himself just sits and stares vaguely out the window, watching the passersby and not thinking.

At last, Mr. Barrow says, "You should go to bed, Jimmy."

"And what about you?" Jimmy asks worriedly, trying not to picture the unmade bed in the other room, because even in a dream, he is absolutely not dealing with that nonsense.

"I'll sleep on the sofa," Mr. Barrow says.

His voice is rough, but Jimmy pretends he doesn't notice. Instead, he takes Mr. Barrow's word for it and goes into the bedroom. He uses the lav and pretends not to notice the two toothbrushes side-by-side, then he lies down on the bed and pretends he doesn't notice the distinct smell of Mr. Barrow (smoke and aftershave and warm skin) about the sheets. Then he sleeps and pretends he still thinks he's going to wake up in Downton tomorrow morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Over breakfast the next morning (toast and tea again, apparently the only thing Mr. Barrow can make), Jimmy is forced to admit that whatever is going on, it's not a dream. He still doesn't think it's real, necessarily, but it's not a dream, at the very least.

"Glad to hear it," Mr. Barrow says when Jimmy tells him this, but he doesn't sound glad. He sounds disappointed still, and Jimmy desperately wishes there were something he could do about that.

"Cheer up, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy tells him, because he can't think of anything better. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

Mr. Barrow hesitates, then says, "You c'n call me Thomas, you know. If y'like."

"Oh," Jimmy says, downright shocked. It's really sort of a familiar request and Jimmy doesn't think Mr. Barrow would stand for anyone at Downton calling him that, but Jimmy can't deny it means something to him to be asked. "Alright, then," he says, smiling a bit. "Thomas." The name feels odd on his lips, both familiar and novel, and Jimmy thinks he'll have to try it out again, just as soon as he can reasonably slip it into the conversation.

"Saturdays, the shop's only open half-day," Thomas tells him casually after that, as though the tender moment had never happened. "And I can't skive off and stay in today, so you'll have to manage it."

"Alright," Jimmy says, just sort of nervous. "Only, I don't know anything about clocks, really."

"You know how to wind them," Thomas points out, and yes, that's true, though thinking about how he learned it makes his stomach clench in ways he can't deal with, not today and not ever. "Really, the only thing you need to know is the prices, which are marked. Most people come in knowing what they want already, anyway, or else they just want to look. And if it's a broken one they're wanting fixed, you just get their name and put the clock behind the counter out of the way for me to find later."

Jimmy must look rather overwhelmed still, because Thomas laughs a bit and grips his shoulder. "Really, you'll do fine, luv," at which point Jimmy can't help himself and flinches back, away from the touch. He's not ready to deal with this, this, whatever it is he and Thomas seem to have together in the strange and damned world of 1927.

Thomas drops his hand immediately and looks away, swallowing hard. "Sorry," he says quietly.

"S'fine," Jimmy tells him. It isn't, but Jimmy doesn't want to get into it, either.

They finish eating in suffocating silence, during which time Jimmy manages quite neatly to feel sorry for the both of them, himself and Mr. Barrow- Thomas, that is. If only Thomas didn't want quite so much from him, it might be different, but 1923 or 1927, it doesn't matter, because Jimmy can't be what Thomas wants.

Minding the shop goes surprisingly well, actually, for all that Jimmy worries about it. He doesn't make a fool of himself, for one thing, and he even manages to make a few sales. Thomas was right when he said most people already have an idea of what they want to buy, so Jimmy just stands back and lets them get on with it, excepting the occasion of a pretty girl wandering into the shop, in which case Jimmy can't help himself but to sidle up and offer his assistance. He doesn't mean anything by it, of course, and this isn't the place or the time for that, anyway, he knows. His flirting does end him with several shillings of a tip, though, which he very generously puts in the cashbox instead of his pocket.

There is also a rather tense moment when Sally dashes out from her spot behind the counter to sniff at an older gent's shoe as he's browsing, but she heels when Jimmy calls and the man takes Jimmy's seemingly heartfelt apology with a curt nod. He doesn't buy anything, but he doesn't strike either the dog or Jimmy with his sharp-looking cane, so Jimmy counts it as victory.

At midday, Jimmy dutifully closes up shop and then he and Sally head up the stairs, where they laze around in the sitting room and stare dumbly at one another, waiting for Thomas to come back. When he finally does turn up, just in time for tea, Sally goes mad, whining and prancing to get his attention, while Jimmy hangs back, awkwardly. Thomas has a smile for him, though, and maybe it's not as brilliant as some of the one's Jimmy's got stored away in his memories, but at least it's a smile.

Over tea (jam and toast again, and Jimmy's honestly despairing that he'll ever eat anything else again), Thomas tells him about the houses he'd visited on his rounds, including one in particular where the butler was a most forbidding chap.

"Reminded me of old Carson, he did," Thomas laughs. "Even had the eyebrows for it."

"'Course he did," Jimmy jokes. "It's a job requirement, isn't it? I've seen the ads in the papers and they always read, 'must have frightful eyebrows.'"

"And that," Thomas agrees, "is the reason I'm no longer an under butler. Wasn't going to stand for my eyebrows going all funny when I got me promotion."

They eat in pleasant silence a while more, then Thomas sighs and says in a rush, "Jimmy, I ran into Doctor Barnes today. He asked after you. After your headache… and your memories. Have you- do you remember anything else? Anything you hadn't done before?"

He seems to be holding his breath, waiting for an answer, and when Jimmy shakes his head no, he looks away quickly. Not before Jimmy can see his stricken expression, though.

"I'm sorry, Thomas," Jimmy says. He wants to maybe touch his arm or something, but he doesn't want the man to get the wrong impression of him, especially considering everything about the situation. "I'm not even sure all this is real."

"Yeah," Thomas mutters, mostly to himself, it seems. "Well, it is to me."

"Thomas, I- will you at least look at me?"

He does, and his face is composed again, cold as ice and just as hard, though at least Jimmy can tell it's not from anger.

"Look," Jimmy tries again. "I don't know what the hell is going on here. And I'm not sure I even want to know. Even if I've forgotten four years of my life, all this stuff," he waves a hand around at the apartment and the shop and the whole stupid farce that is his apparent relationship with Thomas. "It just doesn't make sense! You can see that, can't you?"

"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Jimmy," Thomas says slowly, dully. "I've never forced anything on you, you know I haven't, and if you won't believe your own eyes or common sense, I can't make you. If you can't stand to be around me that damn much, you should just go. I won't… I won't stop you, if you wanted to leave." He doesn't say that he loves Jimmy, but it's writ there all over his face, heartbreakingly clear and terrible.

"I've nowhere to go," Jimmy tells him. There's the sanatorium, he supposes, and maybe they'd be able to give him back his memories or break him out of whatever loony fantasy he's fallen into. It's just, he's not sure that's what he wants, exactly, because what if they do get him back his memories and he realizes he's a completely different person than he ever was before? What if he comes back to himself and realizes he actually is the sort who runs off with an under butler and a lavender dream and nothing else at all. The thing Jimmy wants, more than all else, is to be back in 1923, where it may not have been perfect, but at least it was his and he could remember why he'd made the choices he had and knew for certain they'd been his choices and no one else's. At least in 1923, things had made sense.

"Then stay," Thomas says, like it's an offer, like it's not the only sodding choice Jimmy has in the world.

And Jimmy might be going crazy, might be giving in to some sort of break from reality, but what other choice has he? All he can do is nod and agree. "I'll stay," he says at last. "But as your friend and your assistant. Nothing more."

Thomas swallows and puts on a ghost of a smile, a pale imitation of the one he'd worn when Jimmy'd first made the same offer after the beating Thomas had taken in 1921, now six years ago, apparently. It's not as much of a relief now as it had been then, for some reason, but it's all the familiarity Jimmy's got in this mixed up perversion of reality, so he grabs it with both hands and holds on tight.


	4. Chapter 4

Things get better, after that, or at least Jimmy spends a lot less time feeling like he's in the wrong skin. Thomas, for all the things he clearly still wants (and may have even gotten in the time Jimmy can't remember himself), is a damn good friend when he puts forth the effort. He knows exactly what to say every single time Jimmy's down, which happens more often than it might if Jimmy could actually remember the details of this life he's being forced to live.

Jimmy does make a fool of himself in the shop eventually, and in front of two beautiful women, no less. It's just, after a few days of minding the place, Jimmy's gotten the pricing down, and he can answer sort of basic questions like the type of wood and things, but if anyone has any particular requests, Jimmy's usually forced to blush and admit he just doesn't know. He doesn't tell them about the head injury even though it might make them a tad more sympathetic, because he might not know much about the clock business, but he knows that no one wants to buy from a daft shopkeep. So he keeps that bit to himself as the women laugh at him for answering their query with foolishness, and he knows he blushes splotchy red, to boot, in the way that no one but Thomas would ever find appealing, Jimmy's sure.

He relays the incident to Thomas that evening, after Thomas comes home to find him sulking on the sofa, Sally nosing at his knees in an effort to cheer him up.

"…only they just kept saying they wanted weight-driven instead of spring-driven and I finally just had to tell them I was sure there was weights and springs both in clocks, so whichever one they wanted would be the right type, and were they sure they didn't just want this nice mahogany one. And then they laughed."

He looks up at Thomas, hoping for a bit of sympathy or something, but Thomas is biting his lower lip in the manner that means he's trying not to laugh, as well. Jimmy huffs and glares at him.

"It's not funny!" Jimmy insists sulkily. "They were society girls, I'm sure of it, and they just laughed right in my face. Probably thought I was a half-wit."

"A fair assumption," Thomas says, humor coloring his voice. "Even you can't fool people with your beauty forever, Jimmy, lovely though you are."

It's dangerously close to being too familiar, but it's so very nice to see him happy for once that Jimmy forgets himself and says, "Maybe you should just show me. What's on the inside of clocks, that is."

"All right, then," Thomas says, smiling and pleased. "It's not as though we haven't got bits and pieces laying about, anyway. Just- come over to the table, won't you?"

Jimmy stands and follows him across the room, where they stand shoulder to shoulder and Thomas picks up a clock piece. "This," he says, holding the grimy thing up for Jimmy's inspection, "is a spring."

From there it only gets more complicated, but Jimmy pays rapt attention. It's not just that he hates being made the fool, but he also wants to know this. He'll never be a clock-maker, that's clear, nor even a clock repairman, but if he's going to be a part of this sodding business, he'll damn well be more than Mr. Barrow's bloody assistant. He's going to take back this unfamiliar life, starting by becoming Jimmy Kent: expert clock salesman.

"Are you even listening to me?" Thomas asks him eventually and Jimmy blushes, because he'd been trying, alright, but he'd gotten a bit caught up in watching Thomas's hand, the one with the glove on it, mesmerized by his long fingers gripping whatever bit or piece he's trying to explain.

"Er…"

Thomas laughs fondly. "That's fine. We can try again tomorrow, if y'like."

"Alright," Jimmy agrees.

"You've got-" Thomas trails off, but reaches up to swipe at Jimmy's cheek where there must be a spot of grease. It's a friendly gesture, Jimmy tells himself, and alright, they're standing quite close together and Jimmy's heart is beating far too quickly, but it doesn't mean anything. They're just friends, he thinks, and that's all, and he goes on thinking that even as Thomas's hand lingers on his face. Then Thomas says softly, "It's alright, my lovely lad. Don't be scared."

Jimmy knocks his hand away before he's even thought about it, and he takes two sharp steps back. "I'm not your lad," he hisses venomously.

Thomas's mouth goes tight and his eyes pinched in the space of a moment, but he lets his hands drop to his sides and nods. "Right," he says, voice shaking only slightly. "My mistake." There's a long, awkward silence, then he continues, "I- I'll just… pop round to the shops, shall I? Bring us back some pies, if y'like. Er… I'll take Sally with me."

Jimmy nods and turns away, unable to stomach the heartbreak in Thomas's eyes and unable to do anything about it. He waits until he hears the door close behind the two of them, then falls onto the sofa and puts his head in his hands.

By the time Thomas and Sally come back bearing pies (steak and onion, today), Jimmy's all but ready to apologize. It hadn't been his fault what happened, he's sure of that, but he hadn't needed to push Thomas's hand away so hard, either. He thinks about it as they eat, the silence pressing in around them, with only Sally's occasional whinging for scraps as background noise.

He doesn't manage to get the words out until they're turning in for the night, and even then, they come out sort of jumbled. "Thomas," he says slowly. "I'm- that is, I mean to say… I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we're… friends."

"Yes," Thomas says, affecting a tight smile that doesn't at all reach his eyes. "Friends."

A week or so after that incident, things are back to normal between Jimmy and Thomas, or as normal as they could be, given the circumstances. That's why, when Thomas comes home dead tired and feet dragging, Jimmy sits him down on the sofa and fetches him a cup of tea straight off.

"You," Thomas says between sips, "are a heaven-sent angel, James Kent."

Jimmy knows he's talking about the tea and nothing else, so it doesn't feel wrong of him to grin and sit down next to him, letting their shoulders touch. "That's right," he says easily. "I've just misplaced me wings, is all."

"I did see Sally rolling in a pile of feathers the other day," Thomas agrees. "Thought she'd just got one of the pigeons in the park or something, but this makes more sense, I think." He still sounds exhausted, even for the tea.

"Why're you so wrung out?" Jimmy asks. "Didn't know it was such a rough business, clock-winding."

"It's not," Thomas says, feigning disapproval. "But as I'm not in the clock-winding business, that's really none of my concern, is it?"

"Clock-repair, then," Jimmy amends. "Still, it's not as though you're running about, carrying trays, is it? You've just got to stand in one spot and tinker, don't you?"

"You say that only because you've never been on my rounds with me," Thomas informs him drily. "Lady Rotherham had four clocks broken in four separate rooms. Four, Jimmy! And she had her bloody footman creeping along behind me the entire time, like she thought I might steal some of the terrible naked statuettes she's got lying about the place. So there this boy was, and 'e was asking me a load of stupid questions, and I finally worked out he's the one what's been breaking them. Winding them too much, right? Then he got all offended when I tried to show him what was what."

Jimmy very carefully doesn't think about any of Mr. Barrow's lessons on clocks, doesn't think about Mr. Barrow's front pressed against Jimmy's back, the heat soaking through both of their clothes. He doesn't think about Mr. Barrow's hand on Jimmy's cheek and Jimmy's heart making to beat right out his chest. He clears his throat.

"Doesn't seem like so very much," he says, embarrassed by how high and unsteady his voice is all of a sudden.

Thomas doesn't notice Jimmy's discomfort, just sighs and sets his tea cup aside. "Yes, but after that I had six more houses to get to, didn't I? And one of them was Sir Alan, and his man always makes me wait ages before he lets me go upstairs. 'Keeping me outa sight,' he says, as if Sir Alan'd never seen me in the undress before. And then there was the Watleighs. Good Lord, the Watleighs! I don't even have words for what went on while I was fixing the bloody grandfather clock in their sitting room."

Jimmy can't help himself; the first words he can force out are, "Sir Alan's seen you starkers?" He doesn't know who Sir Alan is, exactly, but he doesn't like the thought, somehow, of he and Thomas having it off.

He's not sure what's showing on his face, but Thomas takes a good look at him and bursts into laughter. "Did you think I'd never had an affair before you, Jimmy?" When Jimmy doesn't respond, just looks away sourly, Thomas sobers. "Oh, don't be like that. It were fifteen years ago, back before the war. And it's not as though Sir Alan even looks my way these days. It's not like he even has the chance, not with that butler of his dogging me. There's no need for you to be jealous."

That hits Jimmy like a punch to the stomach. "I'm not jealous!" he says, louder than he maybe meant to, because Thomas jerks back and away, looking startled. "I'm not bloody jealous! I don't care who you're having it off with. Go have your Sir Alan, if ya like. Have half of London. I don't give a damn!"

Thomas stares at him for almost a full minute, then stands, back very straight, and goes into the bedroom and shuts the door quietly behind him. Jimmy doesn't go after him, but when he presses his ear to the door a few minutes later, he thinks he can hear quiet sobs. He doesn't open the door. There's nothing he can do, he tells himself, and he goes to give Sally a scratch behind the ears.

They don't talk about that night again, but Thomas is unnaturally quiet for a few days after. Sally, sensing the tense atmosphere, becomes unreasonably needy, as well, demanding petting and scratches every hour of the day and crying when she doesn't get them. It's uncomfortable, to say the least. Then one morning, Thomas offers Jimmy half-burnt toast over the cluttered table, and instead of dismissing him, Jimmy takes a slice and gives up a smile in return.

"Thank you, Thomas," he says quietly, and he means, 'I'm sorry,' even if he can't say it.

"You're welcome," Thomas says, and Jimmy knows he means, 'I still love you.'

It's not perfect, what they have, but it's all they've got. They only have each other, and maybe it's not exactly what either of them want, but if there was anyone in the world Jimmy had to be stuck in 1927 with, at the end of the day, he's always glad it's Thomas.

"You should learn to cook again," Thomas says one night after supper. "The pie shop down the street are starting to think us regulars."

"Maybe you should learn to cook," Jimmy throws back at him. "After all, it's your daft dog that knocked me memories right out of me and me cooking skills with them." Jimmy's still not entirely sure that's what happened, but he has at least accepted that there is no real other explanation. And anyway, Thomas seems pretty sure about the whole thing, which makes it altogether easier to come to terms with. After all, what are mates for if not to point out when you're being unreasonable about something? And they are mates, that hasn't changed, even for all the constant strangeness about them.

"She isn't," Thomas says, making out like he's offended, and Jimmy thinks it's about him calling Sally daft, until Thomas continues, "She's your dog, Jimmy. You're the one who picked her up off the street. Second day we'd been here and we could hardly afford to feed ourselves, but you couldn't bear to let her go off and starve, you terrible softie." He sounds… he sounds like he's completely besotted, and the thought of it makes Jimmy so very angry all of a sudden, because why does Thomas always have to keep trotting out those bloody feelings every time they're having a friendly moment?

"Better her than us," he says and he doesn't mean it, because Sally's a lovely dog and it's not her who's soppy over him. "We should have stayed at Downton, if you ask me. 'Least they feed us there. We could still be there, too, if you had left well enough alone."

Thomas's smile vanishes instantly. "Don't you dare blame this on me," he says, voice deadly. "You're the one who can't keep his feet under him on the stairs. And you're the one who was so sure we'd be able to make it work in the first place, the two of us. You're the one that bloody kissed me on the stairs and begged me to run away with you!"

"I never did!" Jimmy insists, because he may not remember what he's done, but he knows who he is and he'd never do that. "I never asked for any of this, the shop or the cooking or any of it. I'm not your sodding wife, Thomas!"

"Could've fooled me," Thomas returns with unsettling chilliness.

"Well, you're very easy to fool, then, aren't you," Jimmy tosses back. "After all, I did it once, didn't I?"

Thomas's ears start to flush an angry red, but he holds his ground. "The only one being fooled here is you, Jimmy," he says quietly. "And you're doing it all on your own."

Then he stands and walks away.


	5. Chapter 5

For once, Jimmy's the one sleeping on the sofa, and it's not terribly comfortable, either, though it's not like the bed would have done him any good, not with him awake 'til all hours, seething at bloody Thomas and his bloody cheek. What right does he have to tell Jimmy what he thinks and feels? What right does he have to force Jimmy into something he doesn't want and has never wanted? Jimmy told him, hadn't he? Way back when they'd become mates, Jimmy had said he'd never be able to give Thomas what he wanted. And Thomas had agreed! Yet here he is, pushing and pushing and trying to get Jimmy to give him something Jimmy just can't, insisting that Jimmy's already done it and just doesn't remember.

It's been two days of silence between them since their fight, and in that time, Thomas hasn't so much as looked at Jimmy, let alone spoken to him, and tonight he hadn't even asked first, just took the bed to sleep on and left Jimmy to do what he would, like he didn't even care if Jimmy was comfortable or happy or anything at all. Two bloody awkward and miserable days it's been, and in all that silence, Jimmy's had a lot of time to think. What it all comes down to, really, is that's not fair. Jimmy misses his life and he misses his best mate and he misses being able to have a real conversation with someone that isn't a customer in the shop or the sodding dog, and if he wants to have those things back, he'll have to- what? Let Thomas have his way with him? Become some sort of poof? Not bloody likely, that. The whole thing is just massively unfair, and Jimmy's not going to stand for it any longer.

Without really knowing what he's doing, Jimmy stands and creeps into the bedroom. Thomas, it seems, is having no trouble sleeping at all, curled up in the center of the bed looking calm and not unhappy. Jimmy prods him awake.

"Wha?" Thomas asks groggily, sitting up to stare at Jimmy. "Whatchoo doing?"

"It's not fair," Jimmy tells him, because it isn't. "You can't expect this of me, Thomas. You can't just expect me to give you something I can't."

"You don't have to give me anything," Thomas says, and he's still half-asleep from the sounds of it. "Jus' let me love you, Jimmy. Tha's all I want."

He makes it sound so easy, Jimmy thinks, but it's not easy at all. And it's not fair to either of them. If Jimmy gives in to this, if he lets Thomas love him and touch him and talk to him like a sweetheart, Jimmy will never be able to do the same for Thomas. And Thomas knows that, knows it'll only hurt him in the end. What they're doing now isn't fair, either, though, not to Thomas and especially not to Jimmy.

'Why can't we have what we did in 1923?' Jimmy wants to ask. 'Why can't you give me that?' He realizes, though, even as he's thinking it, that it won't work. That's what they've been doing and it hasn't worked yet. Whatever happened in those years that he can't remember, something's changed, for better or worse, and they've got to deal with it, because ignoring it hasn't done shite for either of them.

"I'll not be your lover," he says firmly, because he can't, not that. "But…" He doesn't know what he's asking for, really. He doesn't know what he's willing to give up to make this work between them. Thomas is willing to give everything, he's already said it, but Jimmy, he's not so sure. And if he can't give Thomas anything, it'll only hurt them in the end. He's about to say so, but then he sees the hope in Thomas's eyes and remembers the heartbreak and the tears of the last weeks.

Well, he thinks, rueful and sort of resigned, it's not as though he'll be able to hurt Thomas more than he's doing already. And maybe this way, it'll be good for Jimmy, as well. Maybe it'll give him his life back or at least some sort of life he can live through.

"Will you stay?" Thomas asks, holding up the coverlet hopefully.

Jimmy swallows once, twice, bites his lip, and then nods and crawls under the blanket and into Thomas's arms. He's still not lavender, he tells himself firmly, and he'll not be Thomas's lover, but that's not what this is, not at all. Letting Thomas hold him like this, letting Thomas love him, it doesn't make Jimmy any less of a man, not as long as he doesn't do anything back or enjoy it or anything. He's doing this so they can stop the fighting and the tears, that's all. And maybe this is something he'd never have been able to do in 1923, but this isn't then, and it's never going to be again, is it? Time stays still for no man, they say, and Jimmy's no exception. He'd have liked to actually experience the four years between then and now, maybe that would have made all this easier, but if Thomas is right (and he usually is, Jimmy can admit that, if only in his own mind), this is nothing they haven't done before. So no, he'll not be Thomas's lover, but maybe he can be more than his friend, after all.

"Tell me the story," Jimmy says the next morning. They're shaving side by side, sort of companion-like, and it gives Jimmy a soppy sort of courage that he hadn't had the night before. He's embarrassed and sort of ashamed of what happened last night, everything looking a lot more poncey now, but as long as he doesn't think about what he's doing during or after he does it, everything's okay. What he needs, he thinks, is a distraction.

"What story's that?" Thomas asks absently, angling his jaw for a better view in the tiny, tarnished mirror.

"You know," Jimmy says, rather embarrassed again all of the sudden. "How did we get here? From Downton, I mean. And don't you dare say the train, you cheeky bugger."

Thomas smirks, like he'd been about to open his mouth and say exactly that, and he's so bloody predictable, isn't he? "I told you," he says easily, "you kissed me in the stairs and asked me to run away with you. I thought you were mad or maybe you'd done yourself permanent damage falling down all them stairs. But you kept at it, and eventually I agreed."

"But how could we afford it?"

At this Thomas grins, shark-like and irresistible, like he's very pleased with himself, indeed; the fact that shaving soap gets into his mouth and he has to pause to spit it out only makes the whole thing better, to Jimmy's mind. When Thomas is done sputtering, he says, "Don't you know, Jimmy? I've got connections."

Jimmy doesn't doubt that, not at all. The Thomas he knew had his hand in every pie and wasn't embarrassed about licking the filling off his fingers when he knew you were watching. "Blackmail, was it?" he asks, intrigued. "That used to be your game, I think."

"Not blackmail, James," Thomas says haughtily, as though he's a lecturer and Jimmy the pupil. "Bribery."

"What sort of bribery?" Jimmy asks, honestly fascinated. Bribery hadn't been part of Thomas's repertoire in 1923, he's pretty sure.  
Thomas hesitates, setting his razor down and wiping the excess soap off his face, all the while looking sideways at Jimmy, considering him. At last he says, "You'd be uncomfortable knowing, I think."

"I wouldn't!" Jimmy insists, though he's not sure it's the truth. He wants to know, either way. "Tell me."

There's another moment's pause, then Thomas says, "We had it on, you and I, in front of a Duke. And he paid us for it and got us into the one of the grand gambling houses. We combined that money with the ridiculous tip Lady Anstruther gave you when she came to stay. We kept half back and you bet the rest on cards, doubled our money. Then we gave notice to his lordship and came here, stayed with Doctor Barnes until we got the business in order. And that's it."

"Oh," Jimmy says faintly. He wipes his face to give himself a moment, unsure of how he should be feeling. On the one hand, it's damn clever and he's not surprised that Thomas managed to make it happen. He's not surprised, either, to hear that poofy Doctor Barnes let them stay with him. He is, however, rather surprised at Thomas's faith in his abilities. "You let me gamble half our savings?" he asks in awe.

"It's not a gamble if you know you're going to win," Thomas says, knocking his shoulder against Jimmy's. "Now come on, Sally'll be wanting her breakfast."

Jimmy realizes quickly that it's a lot easier to give in to Thomas's attentions than it ever was to ignore them. It just makes things less awkward between them. And true to his word, Thomas never expects anything at all from Jimmy, even as he touches his shoulder or calls him 'luv' or holds him while they sleep. They never even kiss. It's just… it's like being friends, but better, easier. It's like being the very best of friends and having no one between them, not even themselves. And once Jimmy learns to breathe through it, to fight his instincts and stay still at every new touch, he realizes he's somehow happy, happier maybe than he's ever been. He tries not to think of why.

Every morning, Jimmy wakes up warm. He'd never have pegged Thomas as running particularly hot, but he must do, because every single morning, Jimmy's sweat right through the back of his shirt, which is always pressed right back against the front of Thomas, for some reason (honestly, Jimmy doesn't know how they keep ending up like that, or why Thomas gets to be the one on the outside of the cuddle).

"You're so bleeding warm," Jimmy says once, just as the light's starting to filter in through the window. If they were still at Downton, they'd be downstairs by now and already hard at work (well, not so hard, if Jimmy could help it), but here, they can have a bit of a lie-in, so long as they've time to wash up and breakfast before Jimmy has to open the shop at nine.

"'s all you," Thomas murmurs into Jimmy's curls.

"Is not," Jimmy says, indignant. "You're the hot one, not me!"

"Don't sell yourself short, luv," Thomas says, humor and sleep warring for prominence in his voice. "I'm sure there's someone out there finds you attractive." It's skirting mightily close to the edge of this- whatever it is they are now to one another- but Jimmy just swallows nervously and breathes through it, and after a few moments, the stupid fluttering feeling in his stomach (like he's about to be sick) dissipates. He'd promised, after all. He had said he'd let Thomas love him and not put up a fight, and he'll be damned if he goes back on it now, not when things are so, so good between them. Instead, he just bites his lip against the feel of Thomas's arms around him and wills himself to relax. He can do this. Really.

At breakfast, Thomas ventures to make eggs, because Jimmy can't stomach another day of toast and jam. They come out all wrong, somehow burnt and slimy at the same time, but Jimmy manages to swallow them down. He does it because he's hungry, mind, and not because he hates to see the pitiful and hopeful look on Thomas's face. He feels ill, afterward, like he might be sick at any moment, but it would be the height of rudeness vomit in front of the man who's just set aside his pride and masculinity to cook for them, so he waits until he's alone in the flat with Sally to gag over the wash basin.

"It's not personal, you understand," he tells her afterward, as they're opening the shop together. "He's alright, is Thomas. Bit soppy for my tastes and he can't cook for anything, but he is alright."

Sally barks at him, which Jimmy takes to mean she loves Thomas, too. Well, not love. Obviously. But something like that. Because they're not lovers (Jimmy and Thomas, that is, not Thomas and Sally, though the two of them aren't, either). But they are… something, and Jimmy's alright with that. Thomas is happy, Jimmy can see it in him, can see that he's happier now than he has been all this time. Jimmy can't take that away from him and what's more, he doesn't even want to take it away from him. Because Jimmy- he's happy, too; Thomas makes him happy. So whatever it is they are, it's good, and Jimmy thinks he can just spend his life like this.

And he does. For another whole week. And then Doctor Barnes shows his face again and Jimmy kicks himself for thinking he and Thomas could ever last this way.


	6. Chapter 6

One Saturday, maybe a month since Jimmy banged his head, Thomas announces at breakfast that he'll not be home for tea or probably even supper, so Jimmy should just make do without him.

"Oh?" Jimmy asks. "Where are you off to, then?"

"I've a meeting," Thomas says and he sounds rather chipper about it. "With Doctor Barnes. He's… really quite interested in a particular clock."

Something about the way he says it makes Jimmy sure he's lying, but before he can say anything more about it, Thomas glances at one of his many clocks and all but pops out of his chair. "Gotta dash," he explains. "Can't be late for Lord Ainsley, not after the fit his butler pitched the last time. I'll see you tonight." He squeezes Jimmy's shoulder affectionately on the way out, but though the feeling of that hand stays with Jimmy the rest of the day, it does nothing quell the uneasiness in his stomach.

It's a quiet day in the shop, which is bad for business and worse for Jimmy, stuck all alone in his head with the thoughts he's not quite sure what to do with. Because, well, Thomas is out with Doctor Barnes, isn't he? And Doctor Barnes is obviously lavender and not ashamed of it. In fact, Thomas never explained how they knew Doctor Barnes, before they came to London, but Jimmy would bet at least a day's wages that Thomas had had it on with him before he and Jimmy became… whatever it is they were, before Jimmy's memories deserted him.

And Doctor Barnes wouldn't be the only one, would he? There's Lord Alan, for one, that bloke who's butler keeps Thomas below stairs waiting for ages. And even if Thomas didn't want to go to either of those two, for some reason or another, well, there are plenty of blokes in London who could give Thomas exactly what he wants. Jimmy's never been, or at least not that he can remember, but there are supposed to be dance halls and things, aren't there, where that type of man can go for a bit of fun. And maybe one of them would figure out he'd want a bit of fun with Thomas, and why wouldn't he; Thomas is bloody gorgeous!

Jimmy can see how the whole thing would play out. Thomas would sit at the bar, looking tragic and drinking whiskey, soothing his poor soul that's still burning for the love of Jimmy. Then some poof would come up and sit next to him. They'd have a bit of a chat, the man would buy Thomas another drink and then they'd dance together, right up against one another in a way that's positively indecent. The man would know what he's got on his hands, of course, and he wouldn't be so stupid as to let him go after he'd had his wicked way with him. He would know right away that Thomas is… special.

Because Thomas is special, and no mistake. Thomas is a kind, caring, sensitive chap, and more importantly, he's clever and scheming and always willing to watch Jimmy's back. He's Jimmy's best friend in the world and he's the one who always digs Jimmy out of whatever holes he's got himself in; even in 1923, before they'd ever been anything but mates, Thomas had done that for Jimmy. Thomas loves Jimmy, has always loved him, and will always love him, Jimmy knows that. Even if Thomas got someone to shag, it wouldn't have to affect Thomas and Jimmy, not at all. Except for how it would, of course it would. Because Thomas only has so much love in him, just like the rest of them in the world, and if he has it off with this bloke, or with Doctor Barnes, or with anyone else, he'd still love Jimmy, but maybe not as much as he does now. And what would Jimmy do then?

The question haunts him all day, and by the time Thomas gets in, Jimmy's in a right state.

"Had a lovely night out, did you?" Jimmy asks snidely, pretending to read the newspaper for something to do with his shaking hands.

"I did, yes," Thomas says coolly, and Jimmy's hands clench of their own accord, wrinkling the edges of the paper he's holding nearly past ruin.

"I hope he was worth it," Jimmy spits, tossing the paper aside and facing Thomas.

"Just what's that supposed to mean?" Thomas asks, looking confused, like he doesn't even know what he's done, toying with Jimmy like this.

"You know," Jimmy hisses at him. "You knew exactly what you were doing, getting your end away with that doctor, weren't you? And soppy me, just waiting here all alone, talking to the bloody dog!"

"I did not 'get my end away' with Doctor Barnes!" Thomas says, and Jimmy can tell what he's saying is true by the look of horror on his face. "He wanted to buy a bloody clock, I told you that!"

"You were gone hours," Jimmy protests. He hadn't jumped to conclusions out of the blue, he's not an idiot, but… "It doesn't take hours to sell a clock, Thomas! And you weren't in the shop at all; I would have heard you."

Thomas sighs in frustration and raises his hands in surrender. "Fine," he says. "You're right, we weren't in the shop. He… wasn't buying from us, alright? He wanted something a bit nicer than the stuff we carry here, but he's seen I know what I'm about, so he asked me with him to pick something. He didn't want me to tell you, is all."

"Why the devil not?" Jimmy asks. It's nothing sordid, so why should the doctor care what Jimmy knows or doesn't know.

"Come off it, Jimmy," Thomas snaps. "You know he fancies the pants off you. He didn't want you to get a bad idea of him, especially with your memories pulling this stupid Houdini act."

"And?" Jimmy says, because there's got to be more to it than that, more to the secret than some lavender doctor taking a fancy to Jimmy.

"And what?" Thomas asks.

"It still doesn't explain it, is all," Jimmy says. "Just because he didn't want you to tell me doesn't mean you couldn't have.

"Maybe," Thomas says tightly, "I thought it weren't any of your business."

"O'course it's my business," Jimmy says. "We're-" he pauses, not sure what, exactly, they even are after all this soppy nonsense.

"We're what, Jimmy?" Thomas says, and he's gone past frustration and into clear anger. "What exactly is it you think we are that I owe you every last part of myself? We're not lovers, you've been clear enough on that. 'Friends,' remember? We're friends and you're my assistant and that's it, you said that. Well, I've got news for you, Jimmy, friends don't tell each other every last thing in their lives and thought in their heads. Friends **do not care** who their friends shag!"

"No!" Jimmy says, desperately trying to get the situation back under control. "It's not like that anymore! I said that, but it was before, before we-"

"Before what?" Thomas cuts him off, starting to pace. "Before you lowered yourself to acknowledge that my feelings for you exist while swearing you'd never return them? Because that doesn't make us anything at all, except you an arsehole and me an idiot!"

"Fine!" Jimmy explodes furiously. "Let's just have at it, then, and be done with the whole bloody affair."

Thomas pauses, stares at him stupidly and says, "What?"

"Fuck me, already!" Jimmy shouts, spreading his arms to show he's Thomas's for the taking. "Take me to bed and fuck me. Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you've wanted this whole damn time?"

"You wouldn't," Thomas sneers. "You never could."

"Try me, then," Jimmy throws back at him. "Or are you scared?"

Thomas doesn't reply, just takes two swift steps so he's standing well inside Jimmy's space, grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a brutal and angry kiss. It's all teeth and pain and Jimmy's sure he's going to come away from it with a bloody lip or worse, but he doesn't struggle, just lets it happen, wills himself to let it happen. This is what he wants, he thinks, and maybe not like this, exactly, but what other conclusion could come from the thoughts he's been thinking about all day, and longer, if he'll admit it. If Jimmy doesn't want Thomas to go to someone else, can't stand the thought of it, he'll have to do it himself, and it's not something he's okay with, exactly, but it's not as repulsive as it should be, somehow. Some part of him, some deep, terrified part of him, must want this, want Thomas like this.

When Thomas pulls back, he's panting but he's got a satisfied and triumphant look on his face, like he's won the battle and the war besides. Jimmy just stares up at him, breathing too hard to do anything but blink and try to calm his racing heart. He doesn't know what his own face is saying, but the smile all but drops off Thomas's face and he looks stricken.

"Jimmy," he whispers, taking a stuttering step backward. "Jimmy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I wouldn't- I'd never force you to do anything, you know that. Don't you?"

"I know," Jimmy says shakily. "But I don't think you'll have to. I think… I might want this. Want that. With you."

"Are you sure, luv?" Thomas asks uncertainly. "You don't have to."

Jimmy pauses, suddenly unsettled, not because of what he's doing but because of how badly he wants it, maybe how badly he's always wanted it and just couldn't admit to. It's not… it's not a lavender thing, not really, because it's not about what men do with other men. It's just about Jimmy and Thomas and everything they could be together, everything they already were together that Jimmy doesn't remember. It's about everything they could be again, if Jimmy would just get over himself enough to let it happen.

"I'm sure," he says, and he is. And he's not scared, either, because that would be stupid, and weak. He is a bit… well, nervous, sort of, because, well, he's never been with a bloke before, has he? Or a girl, actually, not counting a few snogs here and there. It's fine, though, it's fine. He can do this. He wants to do this. And his body must know how, after all, what with him and Thomas having done this before. So yes, it would be stupid to be scared.

The way Thomas's face lights up at that, the way he swallows and bites his lip, it makes Jimmy even more sure he's making the right choice. When he speaks, his voice is calm, but Jimmy thinks he can sense an undercurrent of excitement in it. "Come on, then," he says, grabbing Jimmy's hand in his and pulling him toward their bedroom. "Let's not scar Sally by doing this on the sofa."

When they're in the bedroom, Thomas pulls him down to sit beside him on the bed. "You can still change your mind, Jimmy," he tells him quite seriously. "Y'don't have to do this now. Or ever, even."

The fact that he's giving Jimmy yet another chance to refuse is sweet (especially considering how hard he used to come down on anyone who ever dared change their mind about anything at all for any reason at Downton), but the more he does it, the closer Jimmy comes to actually taking him up on it, and Jimmy doesn't want that.

"No," Jimmy says quickly. He's going to lose his nerve soon, he's sure of it, so he pushes up into Thomas's space and kisses him roughly. He still tastes like smoke and Jimmy doesn't know (or even want to know) if it's that or the very beginnings of stubble on his face that sends a warm throbbing flood coursing through Jimmy's body.

"My God," he says when he breaks away, panting. "I didn't think…" He trails off, not wanting to admit that he hadn't thought it would be this good between them. He hadn't thought he'd enjoy it so much.

"Don't think," Thomas says, and at least he's breathing hard, as well. "Just come here." He rolls backward onto the bed and pulls Jimmy with him, so they're both laid out, inches from one another. Then he wraps his arm around Jimmy's waist and pulls him yet nearer, closing the gap between them so their bodies are flush together. It's so like all the times recently Jimmy's woken up in Thomas's arms, but it's different somehow. Now, Jimmy can still taste Thomas on his tongue, can smell his aftershave like a haze around them, can feel him hard and hot against Jimmy's thigh (and sure, he's felt it before, because they're men and they sleep in the same bed, but it's never been like this). Jimmy's own dick is starting to ache, as well, and he can't help himself but to arch closer into Thomas and bite his lip to keep his broken moan from escaping.

"Ah," Thomas breathes. "That's it, that's the way."

He's still got his arm wrapped around Jimmy's waist, so he brings their bodies together again, and then again after that. Again and again they press together, but it's not enough, never enough, and Jimmy watches Thomas's eyelashes against his cheeks and wants so fiercely to have his legs wrapped around Thomas's waist, as close as he can get their bodies together and closer still after that.

"Wait," he says, and somehow gets the strength to shove Thomas away. "Stop."

"What?" Thomas asks, wide serious eyes a striking contrast to his flushed cheeks and heaving chest. "Are you alright?"

"'M fine," Jimmy says, sitting up to make a proper go at his buttons. "Get your kit off, won't you?"

Thomas swallows roughly and sits, as well. Jimmy watches him strip, even as he works his own clothes off. He may hate himself when this is all over, but he'll be damned if he doesn't grab ever last moment of it now.

When they're both naked and on the bed again, Jimmy doesn't wait for his nerves to catch him up, just pounces onto Thomas, pinning him to the bed and rubbing their bodies together, reveling in the hot, sweaty mess of their naked skin. He's never done this before (though he has, of course he has, he just can't remember it) and it's good, so unbelievably, unreasonably good.

"Let me-" Thomas says, and he works a hand between them. It's the scarred one and it's a wreck to look at but it feels like heaven when it wraps itself around Jimmy's cock.

"Oh!" Jimmy cries and has to bite down on his knuckle as Thomas stroke him.

"Do you want me to suck you?" Thomas asks into his ear. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Jimmy's whole body shudders at the though. "A-anything!" he forces out.

Thomas's hand stills and Jimmy cries out in dismay. He pushes his hips up, trying to get that wonderful friction back. Thomas takes no notice. "Anything?" he asks.

"Anything," Jimmy repeats. "Just- do something."

To his horror, Thomas takes his hand away and rolls backwards, up onto his knees. It only makes it a little better when he licks his hand clean.

"Turn over," he says. When Jimmy hesitates, he continues, "Trust me. This is your favorite bit."

Jimmy rolls over, despite his misgivings, and jams his face into the pillows, fighting a blush at his whole backside on display. He's not expecting the hungry sound Thomas makes, or the way he pushes Jimmy's legs apart to lay between them. He's damn sure not expecting Thomas to spread apart Jimmy's arsecheeks and lick between them.

"Bloody hell!" Jimmy shouts, head coming up automatically and twisting round to look.

"Keep still," Thomas says, and runs his tongue over Jimmy's hole again. Jimmy can't keep still, of course, can't help but to arch back into Thomas's sinful mouth every time Thomas laps at him. When Thomas starts working his tongue inside Jimmy, licking him from the inside out, Jimmy can't take it anymore, has to have… something. He wants and he wants and if he doesn't get more he might die.

"Fingers," he says, desperately. "I want your fingers."

Thomas makes a strangled sort of noise, like he might be in physical pain, but he does what Jimmy asked and works a finger inside him. It feels like very much, just that one finger, but Jimmy's body doesn't put up a fight, just opens up to it like it's been doing this for years and Thomas doesn't stop with his tongue, even as he works first one then two fingers into Jimmy. It's bloody fantastic, and Jimmy shudders every time Thomas pulls his fingers out only to push them right back in. He'll never be able to catch his breath at this rate, he thinks, but what does Jimmy need with air, anyway. When he's got three fingers inside and Jimmy's sure he won't be able to take anything more, Thomas angles his hand forward and does something that makes Jimmy's eyes roll back in his head.

"That!" he says when he can speak again. "Do that again!" And Thomas does, picks up speed with his thrusts and hits Jimmy there again and again until Jimmy is quivering mess on the edge of losing his mind.

Then Thomas says, "Let me fuck you, Jimmy," and before Jimmy even knows what he's doing, he nods and says, "Yes, yes, please, I want it!"

Thomas doesn't waste any time about it, just yanks his hand back and lunges for the bedside drawer, pulling out a bottle Jimmy doesn't know and doesn't care about. Jimmy uses the opportunity to turn over onto his back, because he'd wanted to wrap his legs around Thomas, hadn't he? Then Thomas is back and kissing Jimmy fiercely.

"I love you," he says roughly when he pulls back. Jimmy doesn't say it back, can't string to words together or seem to get his mouth to work, but Thomas doesn't seem to mind. He kneels between Jimmy's spread legs, slicks his cock up with whatever's in that bottle, and brings their bodies together.

Jimmy's eyes close on their own at the feeling of Thomas pushing inside him. He goes at it slow, and Jimmy loves him for that, because the fullness of it's got him near to coming undone. His hands clench in the sheets and he tries not to tense up, but Thomas is so big and hot and wonderful in him that he can feel the tears leaking out his eyes and running down his cheeks.

"You're alright, luv," Thomas says when he's full in, voice wrecked and hands trembling against Jimmy's hips. "I 'ave ya."

"Please," Jimmy says, the only thing he can remember how to say, and Thomas gives him what he doesn't even know he wants, pulls out and thrusts back in, getting Jimmy right there. And then he does it again, and again after that and Jimmy doesn't bother to choke back his sobs, just lets them out as Thomas fucks him. He wraps his legs around Thomas's waist at last and rocks back into the thrusts and takes the pounding. This is it, he thinks, the best thing he's ever felt in his life. And then Thomas's hand comes up, his wonderful, ugly, ruined hand, and wraps around Jimmy's dick again, and Jimmy comes all over the both of them.

By the time Jimmy comes back to himself properly, Thomas has come as well, is pressing Jimmy into the bed and sweating all over him.

"Get off," Jimmy says, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

Thomas nods dumbly and pulls himself out of Jimmy's bum. Jimmy shudders, and not in a good way, as Thomas's come starts to leak out of him. "Sorry," Thomas says dully, still looking sort of dazed.

"'S alright," Jimmy says, and it sort of is. That was the best thing he's ever felt, he's sure of it, and he doesn't feel dirty or evil like he thought he might. He does feel sort of empty and more than a bit wet and sticky, but that'll sort itself out after a while, like as not. "I, er, I love you, as well. I didn't say, but- I mean, o' course I do."

Thomas just laughs a tiny, happy laugh, and kisses Jimmy softly. Jimmy kisses back.

"A piano," Thomas says out of the blue sometime later.

"What's that?" Jimmy asks.

"That's what took so long when I was out with Doctor Barnes. After we'd got the clock, we went to look at pianos. I thought we might get one, if ya like."

"We can't afford that," Jimmy says, because he knows they can't. Thomas handles their money, he's been told, because Jimmy's just not very good at keeping hold of it (lies, of course, all lies), but Thomas does keep him informed about rent and things and he is, after all, the one who manages the shop. He knows they haven't been turning near enough profit these last few months to afford anything as swanky as a piano.

"Second-hand," Thomas tells him. "Third-hand, technically. And the old lady what wants rid of it said she liked the look of me."

"A lady after me own heart," Jimmy teases. He sits up and scoots back to see Thomas properly, starting to get excited. "You really think we can swing that, though?"

"I've got a bit saved away," Thomas admits. "Was saving it to do something special for your birthday next year, but I thought you'd prefer this now, instead."

"I can't wait a bloody year!" Jimmy says. "I'll be too old and decrepit to play by then. I'll be-," he pauses to do the math. "Blimey, I'll be thirty, won't I? Everyone knows anything past thirty is ancient, Thomas!"

"Oy," Thomas says and gives him a shove.

It shouldn't be anything, except Jimmy's already unbalanced from sitting up on his knees like he is and he's very near the edge of the bed, as well. But actually, he doesn't even realize he's falling until his head hits the floor.

"Jimmy?"

Jimmy blinks awake, stares up into Mr. Barrow's terrified face. His head his throbbing again, and the floor under him is terribly uncomfortable, and he thinks he must have taken a fall. "'m alright," he mumbles.

Mr. Barrow helps him sit up, gingerly, and Jimmy gets a better look around him. They're in the staircase at Downton, he realizes, and there's a smashed china teacup lying next to them, the same one he'd been trying to keep from tipping off Molesley's tray when he'd tripped.

"Molesley's gone to fetch Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Barrow explains, as though somehow reading Jimmy's mind. "He wanted to get Carson, but I figured we'd best get this mess cleaned up before he saw it."

"Right," Jimmy says vaguely. He stares at the smashed teacup for a moment more, then turns back to Mr. Barrow, who looks concerned and very beautiful. "Are we alone?"

"We are," Thomas agrees slowly. "Did you hit your head very hard?"

"A bit hard," Jimmy tells him. "But never mind that. I've got the best idea, Thomas. Let's run away together."

Thomas starts to laugh, thinking it a joke, and he's still laughing when Jimmy kisses him. It's not as good a kiss as it could be between them, Jimmy thinks, but that's mostly because Thomas is frozen in shock, mouth open too wide on the ghost of a laugh. The shock doesn't last long, though, and as soon as Jimmy pulls away, Thomas is pulling him back in again, slipping his tongue into Jimmy's mouth and groaning low in his throat.

"I'm serious," Jimmy says between the second kiss and the third. "I saw me life flash before my eyes just now and it weren't a pretty picture. You're the only one who's ever cared for me, Thomas, and that means something to me. So let's run away together, eh?"

Thomas doesn't say anything, just kisses him again, but that's alright. Thomas loves Jimmy with everything he's got, Jimmy's always known that, so it's only a matter of time before Jimmy convinces him. He's not sure where they'll go or what they'll do when they get there, but if a near-death experience can't show you what you want from life, nothing can and that's a fact.

"I'm going to ask Mrs. Patmore to teach me to cook," Jimmy says.

Thomas raises his head from where he's been pillowing it in Jimmy's hair and looks down at him, confused. "Did you swap out with bloody Alfred while I wasn't looking, luv?"

"Hey, Alfred was onto something," Jimmy says. "Two blokes like us, that's a skill we're going to be needing."

"'Two blokes like us,'" Thomas repeats warily. "And what type of bloke would that be, exactly, Jimmy?"

"In love," Jimmy says easily and kisses him.

"I don't like the look of his eyes," Jimmy murmurs. They're already committed to it, now, whatever reservations Jimmy might still have.

"Nor should you," Thomas agrees. "But don't look at him. Keep your eyes on me, Mr. Kent, or you'll be sorry."

"I'm waiting," his Grace reminds them and they get down to it.

"My God, Jimmy, are you alright?"

For a long moment, Jimmy's not sure where or when he is, in the grand scheme of things. He thinks, for an odd moment, that he should be explaining some sort of mess to Mr. Carson, but no, that can't be right, because Jimmy's not at Downton Abbey at all. He's in their bedroom in their London apartment and Thomas is leaning over him, completely naked and looking worried.

"Ugh," Jimmy says, sitting up, rubbing the bump on his temple. "Depends on your definition, I suppose. What happened?"

Thomas looks contrite. "I didn't realize you were so close to the edge," he says.

"Well, that's alright, then," Jimmy decides, picking himself up off the floor. "But if it happens again, I'm taking up with Doctor Barnes, don't you think I won't. Even if his mother did call me a floozy last time we were over."

There's a gasping sound and Jimmy looks round to see Thomas, eyes wide in shock and a terrible hope.

"What's wrong?" Jimmy asks at once, touching his shoulder gently.

"It's- are you remembering?"

"Well, it was rather hard to forget, what with all her old lady friends hanging about he place to hear it." Jimmy stops, realizes what he's saying. It's just…that hadn't happened yet, in 1923, because Jimmy hadn't known Doctor Barnes until… well, he's still not sure about that, exactly, but he does remember something, which can only be a good thing. There were other things, too, the things that had flashed through his head when he'd banged it just now.

"I was so in love with you," he says, feeling suddenly choked. When Thomas looks confused, he adds, "On the stairs. When I asked you to run away with me. I don't think I'd realized until just then that I'd been in love with you for over a year."

"So you do remember," Thomas says slowly.

"Not everything," Jimmy warns him. "But some. I think… I think maybe the rest will come back."

"But you love me?" Thomas asks and Jimmy knows what it must cost him to ask it so plainly.

"Yeah," Jimmy shrugs, sort of embarrassed. "Well, I'm a soppy sort, I guess."

Thomas smiles, a genuine smile, the likes of which Jimmy hasn't seen for a long time. "Come back to bed," he says, and Jimmy does.

The memories, he thinks as he situates himself with his back to Thomas's chest and lets Thomas wrap his arms around him, don't matter so much. Well, they matter, of course they do, but they're not the whole bit. The memories of Jimmy's missing years probably will return, now that they've started coming on him (and he can recall one of them just now, of the very first time he and Thomas made love inside this bedroom). But even if the memories don't come back, it doesn't matter, because Jimmy has everything he's ever wanted. He's happy and Thomas is happy and if Jimmy has anything to say about it they're going to have it off again tomorrow. He'd never have thought this was something he'd wanted, back in 1923. It had been, the memories prove that, but he hadn't known it. He does know it now, though. And either way, this isn't 1923, never will be again, and Jimmy doesn't even want it to be. He's happy where he is, in 1927, in their flat above the clock shop, in Thomas's arms. And in love, of course, because how could Jimmy ever forget that?


End file.
